


The Red Hood

by Eanna23je



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jon Snow didn't go to The Wall, Arya-centric, Badass Arya, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Game of Thrones AU, Gen, POV Arya Stark, Red Riding Hood Elements, The Long Night, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Jon Snow, au asoiaf, fairy tale AU, the red riding hood AU nobody asked for, winter is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eanna23je/pseuds/Eanna23je
Summary: It has been seven years since Ned Stark was declared a traitor to the crown and sentenced to the Wall. Now Winter is here and creatures of legend have been stirring in the North. The Three-Eyed Raven told her mother to make Arya a red cloak to protect her on her journey to see Ned. The red hood will keep her safe, the trees whisper. But the long night is indeed dark, and the road north full of terrors. Forced to face the Others, Arya is convinced the cloak will be the death of her. Until the Wolf King and his pack save her life. The price the Wolf King demands for saving her life is high, however, and the bargain struck may cost Arya more than she is willing to give.





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you have enough food?” Catelyn asked.

“Yes, mother,” Arya evenly replied.

“Your furs look too light. Are you wearing enough layers?”

“If I add any more, I won’t be able to fight.” Arya tightened the saddle strap and secured the buckle.

Catelyn shifted on her feet. Snow peppered her flame wreathed hair as the older woman took in the quiet yard. She did not like it when Arya fought. “You don’t have to go. Rickon is old enough…”

Arya snorted, interrupting, “Rickon is ten and still a baby. And I’ll be fine.”

Catelyn shivered and then reached behind her, untying the suspicious bundle she had brought when she ambushed Arya at the stables. “If you insist on completing this task alone, at least wear this.”

Arya focused on steady, calming breaths as she turned and not-so-patiently waited for Catelyn’s unveiling. The cloak was clearly a patchwork piece, borrowed scraps from old dresses she and Sansa had long outgrown. Before Winter began, White Harbor had brought in bolts of new cloth from the South. But this was before the Others were spotted south of the Wall, before the old tales sprung to life.

_Before Father took the black._

Arya couldn’t help but gape at the fine silver-thread stitching, direwolf heads, and winter roses, carefully wrought by her mother’s hand. “It’s...red,” she blurted. “I’ll be a bloody target, wearing this out there.” Still, she could not help reaching out to stroke the fabric with her fingerless gloves.

“Bran said,” Catelyn paused for an unsteady breath, “it will keep you safe.”

Arya shivered. They did not often speak of Bran, although her little brother sometimes spoke to them through the trees. Her mother had believed in the Seven before Winter came, before Bran fell from the tower and later ran away with the Reed siblings.

_Before he became the Three-Eyed Raven._

She had not seen Bran in seven years. Her vision blurred. The wind cut sharply across her cheeks, freezing her tears in place as it whispered, “ _Sister_.”

Arya shook her head as she brushed the tears aside, then finally met her mother’s eyes. Tully eyes. Blue like the summer skies, like the sapphire ring that had been Sansa’s betrothal gift.

_Calm as still water._

Catelyn did not shed any tears, not anymore. Her face was too grave and lined beyond her years. “Bran said they will not attack you as long as you wear this,” her mother insisted.

Arya’s sigh clung to the frozen air between them. Her horse, Snow shifted on his hoofs and twisted his dark head to peer curiously at the two Stark women, catching Arya’s eye. It was difficult not to roll her eyes at her oldest friend, then. Instead, Arya nodded her assent. She turned as Catelyn helped bring the fur-lined hood over her head. The moment the heavy, layered fabric settled over her armored shoulders she felt warmer, wrapped in the scent of Summer.

“ _Safe_ ,” the winds promised with her brother's voice.

Her mother closed the clasp at Arya’s neck, then settled her thin, yet strong hands on her shoulders. “Now, you listen to me.” Blue eyes clouded like winter storms. “No fighting, not unless you have no other choice.”

“But—” Arya’s protest died as her mother’s grip tightened like stone.

_Lady Stoneheart,_ the smallfolk of Winterfell had begun to call her.

“No buts, Arya, I _will not_ lose you to any foolish sense of honor like we lost Robb.” A flash of pain crumpled across her mother’s worn features.

The loss of Robb to the War of the Five Kings had hurt the most. Arya never forgave the Lannisters for that.

_One day, I will kill the queen_ , came the dark thought.

Arya covered her mother’s hands and brought them to rest between them. They were not affectionate, not really. All affection had died in her mother with the loss of her husband, her two oldest sons… and Sansa. There was little left for baby Rickon.

_Still…_

“I’ll be fine, just like I’ve been every time I visit Father,” Arya said, willing strength and reassurance into her voice. She forced a smirk she did not feel, adding, “And just think how happy he’ll be when he sees what you’ve sent him.”

She didn’t tell her mother how Ned had looked during her last visit, more silver than brown in his hair and beard. Or the haunted look in his dimmed gray eyes as he told her Uncle Benjen was still missing. Instead, she kept her smile until Catelyn crumpled in on herself and squeezed her hands in a cold grip.

“Keep your cloak on, no matter what happens. The wolves will protect you, Bran said.” Catelyn’s ominous words hung heavily between them. The lines about her blue eyes deepened as she whispered lastly, “Come home soon.” No sooner were these words spoken, than her mother turned and retreated into the keep.

_To the Godswood, no doubt._

Rickon was often left with Maester Luwin or Uncle Brynden of late, as their mother retreated to speak with her dead son.

The air was still warm where Catelyn had been. Arya allowed her smile to fall then, allowed the old bitterness to creep back in with the guilt she felt every time she was forced to endure her mother’s presence.

_Lady Stoneheart._

A shadow of who Catelyn Tully had been, an older reflection of the sister Arya hated.

Arya checked her saddlebags and her pack, the additional blades she had hidden on Snow’s saddle. She climbed onto her horse’s back and led him out the yard, past the open gates and onto the road leading north. The guards wasted no time quickly shutting the gates behind her. No one else bid her farewell. So many of the old guard had died protecting Father in King’s Landing, and then helping to smuggle her out of the city. No, there were too few left.

This was why Catelyn eventually allowed her youngest daughter to brave the road in Winter alone. Besides Arya’s natural affinity for survival, she knew the best places to hide, to hunt and to avoid. She was sixteen her last name day, and she was unafraid. After all, had not Aunt Lyanna disappeared into the wilds after Prince Rhaegar defiled her? No one ever found her, dead or alive. Arya liked to imagine her aunt was still out there, somewhere, even now.

Distant howls cut across the landscape, echoing through the Wolfswood. Arya shivered and gathered the edge of her cloak closer, praying Bran was right about this bloody red hood. The Long Night, as Old Nan called it was indeed dark, and the road north would be full of terrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my little Jonrya fairytale AU, friends! As you might have guessed, this will stick somewhat to canon events, but with a few more magical alterations ;) Would love to hear your thoughts/feedback. I've been writing fanfiction for years at ff.net and fell in love with all your amazing ASOIAF/GOT works. Your stories are what finally inspired me to join the fandom and AO3. So happy to officially be part of the community :) Next chapter we will finally get to meet Jon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has donned the red cloak Catelyn made for her, to appease her mother more than obey the Three-Eyed-Raven. As Arya expected, the journey is made harder when she's wearing a target on her back. The last thing she expects is for the cloak to actually call forth her protectors. And the price for the Wolf King's aid is indeed high.

The first time Arya had seen an Other, was on her third return journey from Castle Black.

 _“You should not have come, wolfling,”_ her father had warned. _“The white winds have been howling. The old gods are on the move.”_

Nothing Ned said could dissuade her, of course. She was his wolfling, after all. She had wolf’s blood, like every true Stark. She was not afraid.

Until she saw the white walker. It had been alone on its mounted, undead steed. Arya had been hunting, for what little there was to be found. The forest was what alerted her first. Too silent. Then came the cold.

Not the cold she had felt as a child, like when she lost a bet to Bran and ran into the Summer snows naked. Not even the cold that came with snows piled up the walls of Winterfell, begging to come in. No, this was something deeper, the cold that crept through flesh and blood.

 _Death,_ she recognized. She had seen it before, after all.

The Other did not appear to see her that day, as it led its mount through the wood and disappeared into the oncoming storm. Arya had not seen any of its kind since, only the bloody undead.

She wondered if today her luck had changed.

“Fucking wights,” she growled as she ducked, easily avoiding a clumsy swing. She sprung back up and held her sword side-face as she slipped behind her attacker.

This one might have been a wildling, once. Its clothes had long-since rotted to bare skins. Frozen flesh clung to its jaw and disjointed limbs. Its eyes gleamed with cold fire as it whirled around, faster than she expected. She barely caught its swing in her dagger’s crossguard.

_Stupid, stupid!_

She wasted no more time, knocking the creature’s sword aside.

Its raging screech made her bones ache. It took everything she had then, to fend off its blunted attacks.

 _Slash!_ The impact vibrated up her arms and through her torso, but she swung true.

An arm fell to the snow and continued twitching.

Enraged, the wight ducked its head and barrelled forward, jaws snapping, one arm flailing.

A pained whinny met her ears and Arya’s breath caught in her throat.

_Snow._

“Quick as a shadow,” she breathed as she twirled and kicked the creature into the drift. No time to create another fire.

Arya’s cloak billowed as she picked up her feet and ran back to the source of the screams. Sweat beaded and froze at her temples. Her gaze darted back and forth over the wood.

Only two nights into her journey and Arya was half convinced her mother had made up the story about the damned red cloak. Like Arya had predicted, it proved a beacon to every predator within two leagues. While she normally would not complain about having extra meat and furs to bring Castle Black, this slowed her progress.

A chorus of undead screeches broke her thoughts. Arya cursed and ran faster. Her hands trembled, but she kept her daggers close.

 _Faster_.

She broke into the clearing where she had made camp two hours before. The sight before her felt like a punch to her gut. Snow’s head tossed and turned from his position on the ground, while the dead…

“No!” Arya screamed as she ran straight for her weakened fire. Barely any flames, plenty of hot coals.

One of the wights rose and ambled forward to meet her, axe hanging loosely in its dislocated arm.

Arya dropped to her knees, avoiding the first, stray blow. She dropped her daggers, trading the weapons for handfuls of coals. She threw the first handful at the first wight, relishing its cry.

Pulled from their kill, the others echoed their fallen brother’s scream.

Arya threw the second handful of coals at the group, catching two on fire instantly. These wights scrambled blindly, helpless against the flames.

Four others staggered forward on stumped limbs and hissed at Arya.

She didn’t feel the pain as she picked her daggers up, or notice the smell of her burned flesh. She kept her front to the advancing wights and sought desperately to hear Syrio Forel’s voice in her head one last time.

_Tell me what to do!_

Syrio was silent.

Father was expecting her. If she did not show, a raven would be sent to Winterfell. More men would come searching. How many would die before discovering her corpse? What if the Others turned her into one of these creatures? How could anyone win against such a relentless foe? These weren’t even the bloody Others and already Arya felt despair and defeat clinging to her conscience.

Snow stopped struggling. Crimson on white…

_Do not look at him!_

Snow had been a present from Robb.

 _“I thought it time you had a proper horse, little sister,”_ he had said.

A deep throaty growl rose from the back of her throat at the memory, at what these— _monsters_ —had done to her best friend.

_My only friend._

Sparks danced along the edges of her red cloak, as Arya ran to meet them head-on, “For Robb!” a cry at her lips. The cloak kicked up a cloud of ashes in her wake as she ducked beneath the first attack.

The wights were clumsy, but they she was already tired and slipping on the bloody snow. She hissed the first time their rusted blades grazed her skin. A differed scream tore from her throat as the largest wight’s axe grazed her thigh.

A roar answered her cry, a beastly rumbling against her ears.

The roar was echoed by smaller snarling barks and howls behind her, echoing in the darkness.

Arya lifted her arms in time to catch the next attack between both blades. The weight behind the wight’s axe swing sent her to her knees. Before she could attempt to break free, a blur of snarling white fur bounded into the wight.

Arya fell back with a gasp.

The largest wolf she had ever seen— _direwolf_ —ripped into the wight. They moved together in a dance of wild beauty and death. The beast made it look easy as it scattered the creature’s limbs, then turned to tear into another.

Five more wolves appeared from the other side of camp, smaller and yet no less fierce as they dismembered the undead.

Heart still racing, Arya scrambled away until her back hit the trunk of a tree. Snow’s motionless body rested on the edge of her periphery.

_Do not look at him._

Arya bit her lip before a sob could escape and focused on the fight.

In her distraction, the beasts had already finished. It was over too quickly, her mind raged. The punishment was not nearly severe enough, not for what these monsters had done. A jolt of pain shot through her hands as she squeezed her daggers.

The direwolf barked at the others. The smaller wolves bowed their heads in turn before backing away into the shadow beyond her fire.

_What in seven hells?_

Arya blinked as the white beast huffed, and then began to pick up pieces of wight in its jaws and toss them into the fire. The flames ate up the twitching remains almost eagerly, and the fire happily grew.

Arya slowly stood, leaning against the tree and watched the beast work. A faint hiss kissed her ears every time a new piece was added to the fire. She took first one step, then another. She wanted to see it, to watch them burn.

A flare of red at the corner of her eye turned her stomach afresh. Whatever madness had taken her was broken by the sight of blood on the snow at her feet.

_No, not blood. Leaves._

Above the branches of the weirwood tree stretched over her, as though reaching for the fire. Arya gasped as she turned to face it. She hadn’t even noticed it while making camp. How had she missed it?

The bleeding face of the old god met her gaze and the leaves whispered, “ _Sister. Safe._ ”

“Bran.” Arya shuddered and squeezed her daggers briefly before placing them back in her sheaths. She gathered her cloak over her arms and hugged her chest as silent sobs pulled angry tears from her eyes.

Bran had told Mother the red hood would keep her safe. What had Catelyn said before she left?

 _“The wolves will protect you._ ”

How had they known?

The leaves did not answer, though the air thickened with the weight of expectation. A pressing weight settled between her shoulder blades, compelling, _demanding_ her attention. Arya turned and her heart seized in her throat.

The white direwolf sat on its haunches, not three feet from where she stood.

Arya sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth and battled the sudden urge to pull her daggers free again.

The direwolf cocked its head and continued to study her with an intensity that felt entirely too human. Here was the source of the weight she had felt.

Arya shivered again as she met the beast’s haunting red gaze for the first time. A steadily churning heat grew within her then, building from her gut and spreading through her limbs. The last thing she expected was for the beast to close the distance between them.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ she inwardly chanted, as the direwolf ducked its head and sniffed at her feet. It’s nose brushed and prodded at the red cloak as it stalked a slow circle around her. Its head rose as it came back around to face her and Arya was forced to look up.

She hated being short sometimes, but compared to this wolf she felt so small. Arya gasped as the beast suddenly pushed its nose at her neck and closed her eyes. She should have been afraid. Why wasn’t she afraid?

She was sixteen, a woman grown and not ready to die. But something in the beast’s manner… it didn’t want to kill her.

 _Snap!_ The crack and responding growl made her open her eyes. She blinked as the direwolf shuddered before her eyes.

 _A trick of the firelight,_ she thought at first.

Until the direwolf’s visage rippled again and then grew with another pop.

The direwolf’s shape continued to twist, snarls fading into the pained shout of a man. The air about the beast that had been a direwolf finally stilled, sharpened. Arya should have been running, instead, she couldn’t help but stare in fascination.

It _was_ a man standing in place of the wolf. A white fur cloak covered his shoulders and parted at his arms to reveal black armor beneath. His long black hair was tied behind his head and an equally black beard covered his face. Arya let her gaze roam over him, this creature from legend.

_Warg?_

She had heard all manner of tales from Old Nan. Men who could wear beast’s skins, who lingered somewhere between both, untamed and unpredictable. Dangerous.

She wondered if the man's eyes were as red as his beastly form's.

The moment she finally met his heated gaze, the warg’s nostrils flared, as though picking up her scent. His gaze flickered over her body as he took a step closer.

Arya shifted on the balls of her feet but refused to back down. She stood fixed upon his gaze, on studying his silver eyes, and the way the firelight reflected off them like beast’s eyes. She was unprepared for the husky voice that passed his lips.

“Little girls like you should not wander these woods alone.”

Arya’s hold on her cloak tightened. “I’m not a little girl.” Her voice cracked and the warg’s eyebrows rose. Again, his eyes took in the measure of her and he took another step forward as if to emphasize their difference in heights.

Arya rolled her eyes. “Just because I’m short, doesn’t make me too little, or helpless.” Her voice wavered at the end as she recalled the sound of Snow’s screams. Arya saw past the warg, to the moment she realized Snow had stopped moving. She bit her lip and blinked back fresh tears.

_Stupid._

Shaking her head, Arya focused on the warg.

His expression had turned darker, emotionless once more, though no less intense as he replied, “What would have happened, had I not saved your life?” His gaze flickered to her trembling arms, hidden by the red cloak.

“I can take care of—” she paused, catching his words, and the weight of expectation still hovering in their tiny corner of the wood. She bit her lip. “Thank you for saving me. You didn’t have to. I-I know I am nothing to you. So...thanks.” She paused, nearly prepared to offer the favor of House Stark like a bloody highborn fool.

He reached for the edge of her red cloak, stealing her words as he trailed bare fingers over the stitching. “I do not want your thanks.”

It was difficult to breathe, then. “No? But I thought—”

“I want your promise.” His hand fisted over the velvet fabric at the same moment his gaze settled over hers.

He was close, far too close. And he was warm, far warmer than she had expected.

_He’s a skinchanger, of course, he isn’t what you’d expect, stupid._

Arya blinked, her mind struggling to catch up with his words. “Promise?”

“Aye. I have saved your life. By rights, it belongs to me now.”

_Well..._

She gaped a moment, at the utter seriousness of his expression _._

“People can’t belong to people,” she replied, but the argument sounded weak even to her. “I belong to no one but myself."

The warg tilted his head much like the wolf had, as though amused by her. “According to the old laws, you belong to me until your life debt is paid.” He scowled and scanned the trees beyond them a moment. “It is dangerous to linger here. Come, we should…”

“Go to hell!” Arya threw her cloak back and pulled her daggers free. She wasted no time attacking. He had saved her life, but she’d be damned if she was caught in the clutches of a different monster.

His growl was her only warning before the warg surged forward. His grip at her wrists was painful, but Arya fought back.

“Let me go! Bastard!” His face was so near hers she wanted to trace the scars on his beautiful face with her blades.

He smiled at her struggle and pulled her up against him, twisting her in his arms until her back was pinned to his chest. He forced her to drop the daggers as his breath fanned against her bared neck. “I am not the monster you think I am, but I _will_ see my debt paid. And I will not leave you here for the Others to find you.”

Gooseflesh rose against her skin and Arya’s teeth clicked as she clenched her jaw. “You wasted your time saving my life, then. Because if you want me to come with you, you’ll have to kill me first.”

The warg turned his face against her neck until she could feel his cheeks tug into a smile. “Or I could just carry you.”

Arya shrieked as she was thrown over the warg’s shoulder. He did not pause to retrieve her daggers or her pack. Arya grasped at his fur cloak and tugged. “Wait, stop! Shit… I—I’ll walk. Just let me grab my things first.”

He set her back on her feet far more gently than she expected. She craned her neck to meet his curious gaze.

His words washed over her in a low rumble. “Will you swear an oath to the old gods, not to harm me or try to escape until your debt is paid?”

Arya dug her nails into her palms and the pain stole her breath and her anger. The stench of blood and burnt flesh stung her nose, but so near to him, she felt...better.

 _“Safe,”_ the weirwood whispered.

“What’s your name? If I’m going to make a vow, I should at least know to who.”

If he was surprised by her acceptance, he did not show it. “They call me the Wolf King.”

Arya froze at the title, at the sudden, painful memory of Robb. “I don’t care what  _they_ call you. What is your name?”

Something softened about the hard edges of his face and she watched his lips twitch, then pull into a shadow of a smile as he replied, “Jon.”

Arya bowed her head as his name passed his lips. Suddenly, he seemed more present, _real._  Not just a legend, the Wolf King, but a man.

_Jon._

She couldn’t do this and look him in the eye. Arya sucked in a breath and willed a strength she did not feel into her words. “I swear by the old gods of my father and all his father's before him, I will not try to harm you, or escape until my debt is repaid.”

With her words, sound rushed back into the forest. She had not noticed its absence until the crackling of the fire, the rustle of branches in the wind and Jon’s unsteady breaths met her ears. Arya gaped and looked around, half expecting some outward change, some evidence of what she could not name. But then, she could.

_Magic._

She did not realize Jon had moved until he returned to her side, holding her daggers to her. The promise was there in the way he watched her sheathe her blades, and then as she retrieved the pack containing the letters she had meant to deliver. Would she see her father or mother, or baby Rickon again?

Jon met her before she could return to his side. Silent as a shadow he moved, suddenly before her, reaching past her shoulders to pull the hood of the red cloak over her head. His fingers brushed the fabric about her face in a caress, gaze darting across her features one last time, and then he turned his back to her and walked into the forest.

Arya hesitated another moment before following.

She did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I haven't been able to get this story out of my head, so I hope you're ready to join me on my mad ramblings. Would love to hear from you and look forward to chatting more jonrya with you. :) Next chapter, we'll learn more about why Jon is called the Wolf King, and what Arya plans to do about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has made the trip from Winterfell to Castle Black countless times since the Long Night began. No one else was mad enough to brave the road with the Others and worse sighted below the Wall. The last thing she expected was to lose her best friend and form a life debt with a skinchanger. Now, as the Wolf King leads her deeper into the wilds, Arya has no choice but to trust the monster at her side.

The Wolf King did not stop. Not as they followed the forest along the edge of the frozen lake, not even as they began the climb toward the northwestern mountains. He marched forward like a man possessed, running from the demon at his heels, sometimes ahead of her, other times behind or flanking her side.

The pack followed them with the rustling of paws on snow and dimmed snarls. Some scouted farther ahead, while others lingered near the Wolf King’s side. None howled, not in this Long Night when the Others roamed these lands. Yet they seemed to easily follow one another, more like a band of soldiers than beasts.

Arya pretended she wasn’t exhausted, that she hadn’t just lost her best friend, or made a life debt with a skinchanger. She didn’t dare look back, not even in her thoughts, and she barely kept an eye out for landmarks. Above all, she did not let herself think of the Wolf King by the name he had given.

 _Jon_ , her mind betrayed.

It wasn’t until dawn crept in, glinting off the frozen lake to the east, that Arya interrupted their silent truce. “Are we actually going somewhere or did you grow tired of playing with wights and decide to torture me instead?”

The Wolf King’s shoulders stiffened as he slowed, and then cocked his head.

Arya wouldn’t waste the chance to be heard. “I haven’t slept in two days. I haven’t had anything to eat, either.”

“Not—” After another moment, the Wolf King seemed to gather himself. She hadn't noticed the night before, but his accent was strange, as though he was unused to speaking the common tongue. “It is not safe to stay in one place at night unless you wanted to become like them." He nearly growled, words bitter to speak, to hear. He straightened, facing forward as he added, softer this time, "Only a little farther and we shall rest soon.”

"Yeah..." she rasped. Arya’s hands throbbed beneath the folds of her cloak. The burns were bad, this much she knew without looking. But there were worse things than burning in Winter. She stamped her boots in the snowdrift and cleared her throat. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t lose any toes to frostbite after this. If we don’t stop soon, you really will have to carry me the rest of the way, _your grace_.”

The Wolf King turned to face her just as the dawn broke through the trees. Rays of pale sun infused his skin with a warm glow, glinting off his black hair. His fur cloak glistened like the snow at their feet, a study in contrasts like the trees splitting the landscape. Her breath caught in her chest as she realized he was beautiful and hated herself a little more for the admission.

“I could carry you,” he offered with a glint of a sharp smile.

Arya narrowed her eyes. “ _Or_ , we could build a fire and take a damned break.”

His brow furrowed, subtle humor darkened as he replied, “If you knew what else lived in these mountains, you wouldn’t want to stop. My home is not but two leagues ahead.”

A trickle of fear curled at her spine, until she caught the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. He was teasing her?

Arya stamped her feet again. “Oh, fine, you stupid wolf.” Her temper was well known among her household. Ned had called it the wolf’s blood. As a child, Arya had hated her inability to calm her temper, however.

_Not like Sansa._

Robb's greatest gift came to her when she had been at her lowest, or so she believed at age eight. Her sister and the steward's daughter had scooped up her clothes near the godswood, while she had been bathing in one of the hot pools. Robb caught her as she had been trying to escape through the castle unseen. She had never seen him so furious or seen Sansa cry so much. 

A dull throb laced her heart at the memory of how her sister had been, the way they all had been. The ache of old wounds, of missing limbs, scars that may heal but never truly mend…

Arya only realized Jon had crossed the distance between them until he was suddenly _there_ , too damned close, his handsome brow scrunched in concern. His eyes, more silver than gray seemed to pierce her, see through her, exposing her secrets and the child she still was in many ways. Weak. Vulnerable.

Startled, she fell into another childhood habit. “This is all your fault, you know. You could have just accepted my thanks and never need be bothered with me again. Now we’re… you’re stuck with me," she rambled. "Not _my_ fault you have to drag around a fragile human.”

With every word, his lips tugged up a fraction, pulling into a smile that gave warmth to his cold eyes. His teeth were almost blindingly white and faintly pointed at the tips. Wargs who spent too much time in their beastly skins became something in-between, Old Nan had once said.

Arya bit her lip as she craned her neck to maintain eye contact.

_To see that beautiful smile… damn._

“It has been some time since I traveled on two legs. I fear I’ve been a horrible host,” he said.

“What?” she sputtered, having quite forgotten what she was saying before.

“Forgive me, but I would very much like to know your name.” 

She blinked, shifted and glanced at the forest. The pack silently watched their exchange. “Arya,” she whispered to the trees. Too soft. She cleared her throat and wrapped the red cloak over her chest.

His thumb was suddenly at her chin, bringing her gaze back to his smile. “Arya.”

Warmth flushed over her at the sound of his voice, speaking her name like a caress, like his thumb at her chin, brushing the corner of her parted lips. When she sharply inhaled, Jon’s smile shifted into what could only be described as a wolfish grin.

“Would you care for a ride?”

“What?” She shook her head, dislodging his hand and took a careful step back. Her hand shifted beneath her cloak to rest on the hilt of a blade at her hip.

Jon watched her carefully, with all the patience of the predator lurking beneath his human skin. “Aye," he muttered to himself, "I suppose it would be easier to carry you in my other form.”

Arya blinked back confusion, and a flush of heat rose to her cheeks.

_What did you think he meant, stupid?_

She bit her lip and found Jon's gaze fixed to her mouth.  “I—" she sighed, "yes, please.” The white direwolf suddenly felt far safer than this man with his dark eyes and sharp smiles.

The air rippled, shuddering around Jon and then a strange popping pressed and pricked at her ears. She blinked, and the man was replaced by his direwolf form, white fur gleaming like snow in the morning light. The beast regarded her with blood-red eyes, the same red as her cloak, as the leaves of the heart tree.

Ever since the king rode south and stole them from their home, it had seemed the gods wanted to punish the Starks. 

_We should have never left Winterfell._

She had stopped believing in the Seven long before they reached King's Landing, stopped praying no matter how Septa Mordane rapped her hands. But she had always believed and been wary of the old gods, ever since the whispers began in the godswood not long after Bran had disappeared. 

 _"Sister,"_ the wind whispered, tugging at her hood, rippling through the direwolf's fur. 

Arya hesitated, then gave in to the impulse and ran her hand against the Wolf King's head. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, chest expanded and holding onto a taut breath, until she carded her fingers through his thick coat. “Soft,” she whispered, startled when the beast huffed.

Was he laughing at her? Arya narrowed her eyes as he twisted his head back to reveal the amusement in his red eye.

Arya rolled her eyes and adjusted her pack better over her shoulder. “Could you bend down a bit, so I can climb up?”

She lifted her chin at the obvious difference in their heights, especially now. But the Wolf King did not tease her as he knelt and allowed Arya to straddle his back. No sooner had she to hold of the fur about his neck than he moved. She fisted his fur in her hands and shivered. So many childhood dreams of riding a direwolf into battle, an army of wolves at her back...

_They were just stupid dreams._

She missed her family, the ones she could never claim back. She missed Snow, his dappled white mane and kindness freely given when Arya lost herself.

A sob hitched in her throat and became a gasp as the Wolf King's steady loping gait quickened. Arya bent low over the beast, clenching her thighs to keep from falling off. She buried her tears in his white fur and for the first time in seven years, allowed herself to truly grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! A shorter chapter this time, but I wanted to go ahead and get this one to y'all, especially since I've got a nice long mini-story arc to cover after this. Lots more Jonrya angst, magic, Bran meddling and Dark Jon ahead ;) Again, thanks so much for all the wonderful kudos, comments and lovely support, friends!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya is finally brought to the Wolf King's lair, and it's not quite what she expected. Neither is Jon, who seems to care far more than he should. But can she trust him?

Arya wasn’t sure what she expected from the Wolf King’s home. A cave, perhaps. Some furniture to accommodate his human needs. She knew so little about true wargs, of course, only what she’d gleaned from Old Nan’s tales and scraps from Winterfell’s library. Whispers at the Wall said the wildlings revered skinchangers and allowed them to live freely among their people. Arya often wondered what her life might have been like, had she been born a wildling.

They climbed faster and farther than Jon had alluded to before. She thought of sticking him for the lie, only to reconsider. Striking any animal she was not hunting didn’t appeal to her. Neither did it seem wise to taunt the warg who thought she belonged to him.

When the white direwolf finally stopped running, they were well within the northwestern mountains. The clans lived here, people her namesake had belonged to, or so Father had said. Arya knew little of the mountain clans, only they lived like wildlings while pledging fealty to “the Ned” as they had called Father. Arya blinked back tears as she wondered where their loyalty lie, now that Father had taken the black and Robb was gone. Rickon was too little to earn the respect of these people, who valued the strength of valor over blood.

_Will any of us be left after the Long Night?_

Arya was so weary by the end of their journey, she barely felt the direwolf shift skins beneath her. One moment she was clinging to the beast, the next, the man was carrying her up wooden steps to the edge of a mountain cleft. Wolves loped ahead and behind them. The skies danced with colors and stars scattered anew above.

“We’re almost home.” Jon’s voice rumbled against her ear.

She shivered and tucked closer to him, craving his warmth. The higher they climbed in the mountains, the worse the wind cut through her ruined furs. She could hate herself later for cuddling against her captor when she wasn’t delirious. For mad she must be, to accept all she glimpsed next.

A fort appeared like it was made from magic, as if the stones had been coaxed from the earth to overlap and create a natural outer wall of the keep.

Jon shifted her in his arms to press his hand against a rock outcropping. He hummed at the back of his throat only a moment, and then stone ground against stone, parting just enough for them to slip through. Two of the wolves followed.

Arya blinked blearily as she turned her head as they passed several smaller wooden buildings, then climbed the stairs leading into a wooden keep. Wolves were carved into rock along the path leading to the door, stone sentinels of the same fashion as the Stark crest.

_I’m dreaming._

She pressed her face into Jon’s leathers and closed her eyes.

“Arya, do not fall asleep yet,” his voice rumbled through her, warming her from within.

“Mm—not sleepy,” she murmured.

Jon shook her, and his steps quickened. The sound of a door opened and closed behind him. “I am serious, Arya. You need to wake up.”

She groaned when he first set her in a chair and then set to work before a wide fire pit at the center of the room. She couldn't stop shaking and curled into herself, bowing her head, seeking what pocket of warmth remained.

His hands squeezed and shook her aware. Arya opened her eyes and smiled. Jon’s eyes were gray... "Like m-mine and F-father's," she whispered. High flames ringed his head. How had he lit the fire pit so quickly? 

His mouth moved, he trembled with the force of his words. She could almost taste his fear, but she could not make out his words.

She gasped as he suddenly tugged her red cloak and then her furs aside. With each layer he stripped, his features darkened. Shadows claimed his face as surely as he seemed to blend and merge with the flames.

Arya's numb lips formed a soundless curse as he stripped her bare and rubbed her arms. She squinted at his mouth as he continued to speak. It did not help her blurred vision.

She wished she could hear what he was saying. She liked the sound of his voice.

_No, you don’t stupid! Now, wake up!_

The warmth from Jon’s palms disappeared and Arya straightened, lost by his absence. She turned her head and the world faded around _him_ , as he removed first his white fur cloak and the boiled leathers beneath. As his chest was finally revealed, scars crisscrossing the expanse of pale skin, she felt a sudden craving to touch. She had never wanted to touch anyone so much in her life.

Arya Stark had never been like most women. After her moonblood came, her mother had explained the finer details of what was expected of her. Yet Arya never felt the need or craved that closeness with any of the boys she met, or the girls for that matter. Had the world not gone to shit, Arya would have been given to some noble Lord as a prize by now.

_No, Father wouldn’t have done it._

On the road to the Wall, Ned had promised.

 _“Promise me you won’t make me leave Winterfell,”_ she had begged.

What had he said to her in King’s Landing?

“ _Y_ _ou will marry a king and rule his castle…”_

Now Arya wondered at the desire curling below her belly and pooling between her legs as she watched the way the firelight danced over the Wolf King’s human skin, the way he faced her unashamed. She shuddered at the intent in his dark gaze. Was this where he claimed his debt?

 _"No. That's not me..."_ she had protested.

She should have been fighting, should have used his distraction to grab her dagger and stick him with the pointy end. Where were her daggers? Her hands felt numb as her fingers passed over her naked hips, bare like him. When did he remove the rest of her clothes? Arya stood to her feet and immediately swayed.

 _Too fucking weak,_ a distant part of her raged.

Jon caught her in his arms, slipping firmly about her waist, and lifted her off the ground. Her toes brushed his shins as he carried her. 

“Damned tall,” she muttered. Her voice sounded too distant, as sound passed through water.

Jon’s eyes crinkled at the corners but his smile did not pierce the storm clouds brewing within his eyes, or his urgency as he carried her to the other side of the fire and laid her on a pile of furs.

He settled in over her and pulled another layer of furs over their naked bodies. Without hesitation, he wrapped himself around her, an arm at her waist pulling her flush against him. Chest to chest, this was the closest she had ever been with anyone. She should have been afraid. All she could think of was the glorious heat radiating off the Wolf King’s body.

Arya buried her face against his neck with a groan and tangled her legs with his. It should have been uncomfortable. Instead, this was the closest to all seven heavens she expected to reach. His hold tightened around her as she shivered. As the cold was driven from her limbs, Arya sighed and closed her eyes. His lips brushed her forehead before she fell into dreamless sleep.

 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

 

She dreamed she was a wolf, and she was free. The mountains were full of game, the humans here respected her, even revered her. " _Wolf Queen,_ " they whispered in their halls. 

The white wolf ran with her. They rarely hunted apart. Sometimes they did not bother to hunt. Other nights, they tracked a different, more sinister prey, reeking of death. But there were some nights they ran for the joy of it, for the same reason they mated.

Arya woke panting as if she had been running rather than laying down. She blinked the world back into focus, then frowned. Her cheek was tucked against something hard and warm. Her hand splayed before her eyes over a chest covered in scars. Arya’s lips parted as she traced the uneven ridge beneath her hand. Another was at her cheek, over his heart. How had he survived such wounds?

_What are you doing? Get up, stupid!_

Arya curled her hand into a fist to keep from following the path of Jon’s scars. She closed her eyes and tried to recall how she came to be here in the first place. The events after she climbed onto the Wolf King’s back were blurred at best. At worst, Arya wondered what the strange surge of wetness between her legs meant.

She uncurled her fingers, driven by an urge both primal and foolish. Her hand splayed over his abdomen once more, she felt the ripple of muscle as he breathed.

_Stop being stupid and move!_

He was vulnerable now more than ever, wasn’t he? Arya could think of several ways she could incapacitate the man, hopefully before he woke and changed his skin. She bit her lip and tried to harden her heart for what she was about to do.

She moved her free hand from his chest to reach behind her for the source of heat at her back. Only then did she remember the pain of grabbing hot coals before she threw them at the wights. She’d be lucky if she healed enough to use her hands again after attempting this again.

Arya pushed up on her elbow as her fingers passed the edge of their furs. She had barely grazed the edge of the fire pit when the arm about her waist tugged sharply. She fell back against his chest with a gasp. Jon rolled onto his back, dragging her over him as he buried his face in her neck with a growl. His arms wrapped around her waist as his manhood rose against her thigh.

Arya gasped as the pulse between her thighs increased in response and she cursed, "Shit.”

Jon's chest shook, silently at first and then dry laughter vibrated against her neck, as though his throat was unused to the sound. And then he was tipping her chin up, urging her to meet his dark eyes. The almost hesitant smile curling his mouth was belied by the furrow in his brow. He traced her jaw gently, with something between relief and wonder in his eyes.

“How do you feel?” he finally spoke.

Arya clenched her teeth together as she pushed off his chest and pulled back the furs covering them. “What the hell happened?” Her voice came more shrill than she intended.

Jon’s smile fell and was replaced by his usual heavy, severe expression. “You were freezing to death. I did what I had to do, to keep you alive.”

Arya twisted her head quickly to see two of the wolves lazing on the other side of the fire pit. Sunlight peeked between cracks in the keep, but she couldn’t see past the shadows past the firelight. “Where are my clothes?”

Jon stood, not bothering to hide his nakedness or the fact his body still desired her. “I haven’t had time to clean our things, yet.”

Something in the way he said  _our_ made Arya freeze and narrow her gaze at him. She understood what he'd done, the fact he had just saved her life... _again_. What she didn’t understand was the way he was looking at her, with a blend of disappointment and longing. What in seven hells had he expected from her?

“Jon,” she began slowly, to be sure he understood. “Where the fuck are my clothes?”

Jon clenched his fists but didn't try to close the distance between them. “If you’ll wait here, I have some things that should do for now.”

She paused, drinking in the almost awkward shuffle of his feet. That she was capable of unsettling him gave Arya a heady rush of control she desperately needed. “Fine,” she hissed and stumbled forward to grab the nearest fur. Her awkward steps jarred her body and she tasted rust as she bit her tongue while wrapping the fur around her body.

“Easy, you should rest." Jon moved before she could protest, catching her before her legs gave out. He helped her sink back onto the fur pallet before stepping back, his gaze sweeping over her once more. "I...I’ll be back soon.”

Arya refused to look at him. She wished she had her daggers right now, something to make her not feel like a weakling. She sighed with relief the moment he opened a nearby door and disappeared into another room.

She pulled a hand free of her furs and wincing, slowly tilted her open palm to the firelight. The throb in her skin had dulled, but the flesh was still raw and festering. "Shit," she mumbled. She'd need to treat it soon. No wonder she felt so weak. Besides the almost dying again thing.

 _“Sister,”_ the wind whispered. Arya jumped at the sound of branches scratching against the roof. Following the sound, she discovered a large weirwood tree growing up from the floor by the back of the house, its branches sprouting past the rafters and through expertly cut holes in the roof. The wooden floor had been built around the white trunk, and the tree seemed well cared for. The bleeding face of the old god was watching her.

Arya cursed under her breath. “Great, now my little brother has seen me naked.”

 _“He will protect you,”_ the Three-Eyed Raven whispered to her.

“He’s a manipulative ass is what he is.” Arya shook her head with a huff.

 _“You can trust him,”_ the tree replied with her brother’s voice.

Arya made a rude gesture at the weirwood and hoped her little brother really could see through the damned thing.

A distinct clearing of a throat and Arya whipped back around to find Jon clutching a bundle in his hands and trying to vainly hide an amused grin.

“What?” she barked.

The Wolf King shrugged and handed her the bundle. “Try these on. I’ll uh—give you and the tree some privacy.”

Arya growled and nearly threw the clothes back in Jon’s face.

He held up his hands, laughing as he retreated back into the adjoining room he had come from.

Arya pretended she wasn’t staring at his perfect ass as he walked away.

_Damned wolf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos and reviewed this story so far! I love hearing from you and of course, chatting Jonrya with you. Up next, lots and lots of slow burn angst. Also magic, wolves and Jon's "rules" for Arya. We'll see how well she obeys. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya reconciles herself to her fate, but she fears the Wolf King wants more from her than a life debt. Will she abandon her duty to her family and the North for this god-like man, and would he give her a choice?

The borrowed clothes fit her perfectly, of course.

_Damned wolf._

Sinfully soft leather breeches and a tunic dyed gray as the winter skies, _as Jon’s eyes_.

Arya tightened the belt a bit too firmly, winced, then re-adjusted with a curse. There was no cloak, no boots and she did not see the red hood Catelyn Stark had made. And so her glare fell upon the room Jon had disappeared into earlier. She wanted her daggers, her bloody boots and a damned way out of this prison.

 _You made a vow before the old gods,_ Bran whispered, a rasping whisper through crimson leaves.

Arya turned her glare to the face of the weirwood and could almost see her little brother’s smirk. “Shut it. I’m still older than you.”

“Everything fits, I see,” the wolf spoke from behind her.

Arya’s jaw clenched painfully as she turned around to face the predator’s amused inspection. “ _What?_ ”

Jon maintained a stupidly somber expression while those silver eyes again took her measure. “The clothes," he said, gesturing with a wave of his hand, "they suit you.”

Arya bit her tongue before blurting out the obvious. He had to have heard her snap at the tree. The thought made her flush with embarrassment.

_Oh, gods, I’m a blushing maiden, like one of Sansa’s fucking songs._

Jon’s nose flared as he prowled forward. There was no other way to describe sudden, carefully measured steps, the coiled tension in his shoulders, or the hunger in his gaze as he grazed her cheek with a gloved hand. “Red is a good color on you.”

Arya instinctively licked her lips and his gaze flickered down, darkened. She covered her mouth with both hands. The first snort escaped before she could shove it in, quickly followed by another, and then she was gasping for breath between gusts of laughter. “Oh gods, that—” she gasped and Jon's expression shifted from incredulity to wonder as she added, “Please tell me you don’t use that line on all your women, milord.”

Jon was still touching her, his fingers snaking through her loose hair. It was long enough to braid again. She needed to cut it.  

Uneven giggles shook her chest. She couldn’t help relishing in the glory of watching his stoic face crumple. Until he slid his other hand to her waist and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Arya held her breath as a wide, blindingly sharp smile graced his beautiful face. With a single stroke, he stole her laughter and breath away.

_Like those cats who steal your breath as you sleep._

The errant thought turned into a mistake as her mind suddenly replaced the cat lying atop her with Jon, his mouth parted mere inches before hers.

“Shit,” she hissed.

His brow arched with amusement. “Forgive me, I fear I've not had much practice talking with people. Especially not beautiful women.”

Arya shook her head, vainly hoping to dislodge his hand.

 _Grasp the wrist, break his fucking bones and run,_ a dark voice plotted in her head.

Arya laughed at this idea. _Yeah, and then you’ve only pissed him off._

“ _You made the vow,_ ” Bran whispered with a gentle stirring of weirwood leaves.

“Arya?” His voice called her back from the curse forming on the tip of her tongue, back to the Wolf King watching her with concern and that underlying sense of wonderment.

“Why me?” she blurted.

Jon’s brow creased in puzzlement and he cocked his head slightly to the side as if she had just asked him the stupidest question in all seven kingdoms.

Arya wrung her hands. “I mean, what do you want from me? A slave? A—a bedmate?”

Jon’s gaze hardened and his answer came swift and fierce as the wind cutting through the roof, ice battling the fire at their heels. “I would never dishonor you in such a way. You,” he hesitated, and the years suddenly melted from the Wolf King’s face as he searched her like he was starving in winter and she was his first taste of spring. Finally, he muttered, half to himself, “How can I tell you when you don’t even know?”

Arya gaped at this, all thoughts of running and breaking her vow lost to his uncertainty, this creature of legend and cold steel, forged in the Long Night just as she had been. For the first time, she wondered, what was his story? Who was this Wolf King, and why did he live alone?

Jon shook his head, dislodging the hopelessness in his expression. His tone bled with sincerity as he focused once more on her. “I want no more than you are willing to give.”

Her relief was so instant and palpable, Arya could taste it.

_He's not going to rape me._

“However," he added, like a shifting of cold winds and hard command, "if you are to remain here with me, there are certain rules you must obey without question.”

“Rules,” her voice fell flat.

Jon’s hold shifted, a possessive grasp at her waist. “I only ask you this to protect you.”

Arya forced a sweet smile to turn her lips over clenched teeth. “And what would you have me do, milord?”

His eyes flashed, their black depths overtaking the gray. To her surprise, he released her and turned his back and stalked over to the fire. His voice rang clearly, despite his low timbre. “The room I went into before, you are not to enter.”

“Afraid I’ll find my weapons and stick you with the pointy end?”

"No." Jon chuckled as he poured a bucket of fresh water into a pot. She wondered when he had found time to draw water, or if this was another magic thing. Jon opened a small chest and pulled free finely carved wooden utensils. Her nose didn't recognize the spices he began to throw into the water as it slowly boiled.

Arya frowned, rubbed at the itch in her nose and glanced briefly at the dark wooden door. “You shouldn’t judge a person by their size.”

Jon eyed her with a lift of his dark brow. “If you had wanted to kill me, Arya, you wouldn’t have hesitated this morning.”

Her mouth fell open and Jon set to work preparing the cooking spit over the fire. She watched, dumbfounded as he unwrapped a bundle of leathers to reveal freshly skinned meat. With a sleight of hand, he pulled a dagger of dragonglass from his hip and began to slice the meat into chunks. Arya shook her head. She should have noticed the dagger.

_How did he know I wanted to kill him?_

As if he could hear her thoughts aloud, Jon added, “I am a very light sleeper, little one. And you are not the first person to plot my death.”

Arya swallowed and unclenched her hands. She found herself staring at the shifting shoulders, the memory of his bare flesh lined and marred by scars. “I—” her voice cracked, faltered and she could think of nothing. Nothing but the truth that he had upheld his end of the bargain so far. That was all little more than a pact before the old gods, after all, just like in Old Nan’s stories. The god rescues the maiden and incurs a life debt she must somehow repay through some boon, like slaying a beast or giving her firstborn. Strange that she did not think of Jon as the beast but rather like an old god instead. A wolf god, perhaps.

_Do wolves have gods?_

“Come and eat before it gets cold,” came Jon’s gentle command.

Arya hesitated, bit her lip and crossed the room to sit on the furs at his side. She watched him from beneath her lashes as he placed the warm wooden bowl between her palms. Venison stew. Her mouth watered and she could not consume it fast enough. For a time she forgot to stare at her captor, lost to the heavenly taste on her tongue. Of course, this was when he chose to strike next.

“You will not leave the house, for at least two more days,” Jon announced between bites. “While you remain in my home, you must keep the fire strong and tend to the weirwood. I trust that will not be a problem.”

Arya swallowed around her spoon and managed not to choke before setting her bowl aside. “Why would that be a problem?” she asked, though already she was pondering why he said only two more days.

Jon rubbed a hand over his short beard, hiding his smile. “I know you are highborn,” he simply stated.

“W-what?” she sputtered, cursing her lack of artifice. Arya had never been a gifted liar. Too brash and used to action than cunning.

 _Not like Sansa,_ came the dark thought.

Jon took her hand and turned her palm to the firelight. “These are not the hands of a maid or farmer’s daughter.”

Arya tugged her hand free and cradled it to her chest. Her raw skin tingled as if he had burned her afresh. “I have plenty of calluses,” she growled. Hard-earned calluses. Her hands had bled often as a child from her “dancing lessons” as Father had called lessons with Syrio.

“Aye, I have seen you fight.” The Wolf King's troubled gaze followed her hand's retreat. “Arya, you must allow me to tend to your hands.”

“Another rule to add to my list, _master_?" she hissed.

Jon's growl belonged to the predator lurking beneath his human skin and Arya fought back the shiver curling low in her belly at the sound. She should have remembered the old saying, to never poke a sleeping beast.

Jon tossed his empty bowl aside and crawled over Arya, trapping her between his arms and forcing her to lean back against the furs. “You will allow me to care for you, Arya," he heatedly began, "Even if I must tie you up first.” 

“Bastard,” she spat. The skin about his eyes tightened and his mouth twisted and she seized upon his show of weakness. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Never knew your father or mother and so you live outcast and alone. You know what they say about bastards, _Snow_?”

Jon pressed a hand to her waist. “Tell me, then, as you seem to know me so well,” his words came raw and wavering and weakening her resolve. “Tell me what it is to live alone, cast from your home because of what you are! Are you to pass judgment over me too?"

 _Horseface...Underfoot,_ a voice very like Sansa’s taunted in her memory. Arya’s triumph twisted into disgust in the cast of firelight and shadows playing over the Wolf King’s face, with his ragged breath grazing her cheek.

 _"You were never cruel,"_ her father’s voice reprimanded her anew. She had judged her mother harshly before him, once, at the Wall. _"You cannot possibly understand her loss, Arya."_

What would Father think, was he here? He had always taught them not to judge a man by their past circumstances, but rather their character. How could she judge this skinchanger like his people had?

“I did not know." Arya shook her head and closed her eyes before he could see her tears. “Forgive me.”

Silence, so thick and strangely desperate. It was her own fear she was feeling, of course. The same bitter fear that she was not enough, could never be enough for her family, for Winterfell, for the North. She could not inherit her brother’s crown, and she could not ride off to war in the South. She was little indeed, as Jon had said. She was nothing.

She gasped as rough, chapped yet full lips pressed once, twice, brushed against hers. Arya dug her hands into the soft, prickling furs beneath them, to keep from reaching for him. She opened her eyes to find his silver eyes wet and gleaming like moonlight as he took in her reaction.

“Arya,” he rasped.

Her hand slipped around his neck of its own accord, as she drew him back to slant her mouth over his.

Jon's moan vibrated through his chest and into their kiss.

Arya didn’t know how to kiss, not really and was likely utter shite at it, but she couldn’t care less. She was shocked to find, for the first time in her life, she _liked_ kissing… she liked kissing her wolf god very much.

The Wolf King trembled beneath her touch, tension coiling in his neck and shoulders as if he were holding himself back.

“Don’t hold back,” she urged against his mouth, pulling a deeper groan from his throat, and then his long frame slid against hers, molded around her. He pulled her hip up to meet his with a swift tug and without breaking their kiss. Arya instinctively parted her legs and wrapped them about his waist, gasping to feel his hard length suddenly _there._

Arya clamped her teeth over her lip to keep her groan at bay as Jon began to roll his hips up with rough precision.

“Look at me,” he growled. When she locked eyes with his beastly silver he shifted his hips and drove against a place that made her bite back another moan. “I want to hear you,” he growled while increasing his pressure and pace.

Arya shook her head and bit down harder on her lower lip. She tasted the rusty tang on the tip of her tongue and Jon's nose flared. He lowered his mouth to hers with a groan, stealing her lip between slightly sharp teeth and ran his tongue over the tender skin. His fingers dug into her thigh as he shifted her hip and the angle of his thrusts _just so._

She didn't bother stifling her pleasure this time, a high-pitched sound Arya had never heard pass her lips. And she wondered how she could feel so much, this raging fire through her veins. She had only ever felt something similar to this in a fight, in the high that came from besting an opponent on the field or escaping the clutches of death.

_What do we say to the god of death?_

_I have a new god, now,_ Arya thought with a smile, as she clung to Jon and threw back her head, giving in to the rush of feeling. His free hand slipped beneath her tunic and reached her nipple. No sound passed her parted lips as the stars appeared behind her closed lids, eclipsed by the moon in Jon's silver eyes. Sharp teeth clamped down at the juncture of her shoulder and neck, the sting laved by a tender tongue, dragging out her release. Jon growled against her shoulder, shuddered and then stilled.

Arya lifted a hand to her eyes and sought to control her breathing. For a moment she wondered if she had been struck blind. She shifted her legs and to her embarrassment knew she would need fresh smalls. A large, gentle hand peeled hers away and she opened her eyes to Jon pressing a tender kiss to the uneven skin of her burned palm. His lips came away bloody.

She pulled free from his grasp to touch the wet trickle of blood beading at her neck and then stared at the ruby stains on her fingers.

“Arya, I… forgive me. I don’t know why I—I shouldn’t have…” Jon stumbled over his words, suddenly shy and so far from the Wolf King who had brought her pleasure  _without taking off her clothes_.

She returned her focus on him, his pale cheeks tinged red.

What was it he had said?

_Red is a good color on you._

Arya threw back her head and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus, friends! This past month has been so busy I could barely find the time for work or my actual books. But re-reading past chapters made me catch the Red Hood bug again. Thanks so much to all of you who have read and reviewed and given kudos. You guys are what makes this so much fun. Excited to see where the next chapter takes us! Up ahead, more lovely Jonrya and questions that need answering. Most of all, can Arya stick to Jon's rules, or will she risk his wrath?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya shouldn't trust the Wolf King, she doesn't, truly, but she can't hate him either. No matter what she wants the Long Night is far from over and Arya suspects they both have a part to play before the end.

For the past seven years, Arya’s life had been thrown into comforting chaos. Ever since the king came North to rip apart their family she hadn’t known a day without fear, or night without wondering what the dawn might bring. It had been a never-ending succession of _dark wings, dark words,_ scrawling messages from Catelyn before the war broke out: Uncle Benjen was missing on the Wall; the Lannisters were plotting, always plotting, Aunt Lysa wasn’t helping. And after Yoren smuggled she and Father out of King’s Landing, after Sansa’s betrayal, after Robb went to war over it…

In recent years, as the Long Night put a halt in the war between five kingdoms, Arya had run Winterfell in all but name.

_For a mother who could barely care for herself. For a brother too young and wild to bother taming._

Every day was spent preparing provisions and stocking enough peat and wood for fires to last through the night. Every night was spent hoping the defenses lasted against scattered attacks from wights.

Arya could not remember the last time she had spent a day doing _nothing_. Nothing but simple, menial chores.

“Care for the bloody tree,” Arya mocked under her breath as she removed freshly fallen blood-red leaves from the patch of earth at her brother’s roots.

 _“You seemed so fond of the tree, I thought you’d find enjoyment in the task,”_ the Wolf King had teased when she'd protested the first day.

Arya snorted as she placed the leaves in a nearby basket. “Trying to drive me mad, no doubt,” she muttered, standing with a cursory glance at the weirwood.

 _“You drive yourself mad enough without my help,”_ Bran’s whisper carried on the wind.

Arya rolled her eyes. “I hear enough from him without you butting in. Don’t you have other trees to look through? Let me guess,” she gestured with the leaf in her hand, “I see all, Arya, remember? I’m the bloody Three-Eyed-Raven.”

There was more than a hint of humor in her little brother’s voice as he replied, _“True enough. Though I confess, no other view has offered me nearly as much entertainment.”_

Arya met the weirwood’s gaze and for a moment, glimpsed an older version of Bran’s face peeking back at her.

Her smile fell. She had avoided the godswood since her little brother started visiting them through the trees. Bran had found other ways of speaking to her, though, often through Catelyn. Arya hadn't realized how much she'd missed her brother until the Wolf King forced them together... as if Jon knew.

The leaves rustled overhead. _“Do not be sad, sister. This was always meant to be in every lifetime.”_

Arya grimaced as she stood, returning to the fireside and the stew she was attempting not to botch. “Is there a life we live where we aren't fucking miserable?”

Bran’s silence was answer enough.

One by one, Arya slowly added leaves into the fire as Jon had instructed. The act of burning anything belonging to a weirwood had troubled her enough at first. Until Jon had covered her hand with his and helped her cast the first one in. A shower of sparks had kicked from the flames as his beard brushed her neck. _“The flames protect us as much as the old gods.”_

Arya hadn’t been able to keep back her reply. _“You would know, wouldn’t you?”_

Since _that day_ , she'd thought of him as a wolf god. He didn’t need to know that, though. He was insufferable enough as it was.

Jon hadn't spent every moment of the day with Arya as she'd half expected. Where he disappeared to, he would not say. At times he went through the forbidden door, later returning smelling of the earth and the sweet scent she had come to associate with magic. He hadn’t returned her red cloak or clothes.

 _“Where’s my pack? I need to make sure nothing was damaged,”_ she had attempted to ask while they broke their fast yesterday.

Jon had only swallowed, not bothering to look up.  _“Two days, Arya,"_ was all he'd said.

Often, Jon left through the front door, tending to gods knew what. Last evening, he'd returned covered in the black blood of wights. Arya had stopped asking questions after that.

She watched the last crimson leaf crumble to embers and spark into the air with the sharp tang of magic, then returned to the other task at hand. The stew wasn’t burning yet, which would mark as a first for Arya. “Mayhaps I won’t poison us tonight,” she said to Bran.

The leaves rustled again to the rasping sound of Bran’s laughter. Arya smiled, pleased she had been able to coax more life from her god-like brother. If she didn’t look too closely at the bleeding face watching her, Arya could almost pretend he was there with her. She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped thinking of the weirwood as a tree.  Strange that the past two days as a wolf-god’s captive had been the least lonely Arya had felt in years.

She squeezed her hands and ran her fingers over the tender ridges, marveling at the healed skin, when the door banged open.

A gust of cold wind cut through the hall. Her spine straightened almost painfully at attention, then relaxed as one of the other wolves slipped through the crack. “Oh,” she breathed, “hello again.”

Another thing Arya had quickly grown accustomed to was the constant presence of at least one of the wolves. Whether they returned of their own volition, or because they were ordered to watch her, Arya cared not. She had wolf's blood and she was not afraid.

She reached into the low chest beside the pot where Jon kept the cooking utensils and pulled the third bowl free.

“Hungry?”

The gray and silver beast cocked its head at her question, then huffed what sounded suspiciously of laughter. Ignoring her, the wolf passed a circuit about the keep before returning to curl up beside the crackling fire.

Arya dropped the bowl back in the chest with a growl. “My stew's not that bloody awful.” Bran’s answering laughter made her inner hackles rise and she pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t you dare say anything. We both know it's a miracle I haven’t burned down the keep yet.”

Bran’s laughter faded and she realized burning might not be the best word to use around trees. Arya snorted at the odd thought and shook her head. “I _am_ going mad. Mother will be thrilled. Another mad Stark in the family.”

The door opened again.

Arya forced her heart to calm as she carefully stirred the mystery meat in its pot. “Care for a bowl? That one over there says he's too good for my cooking.”

“At least it isn’t burning this time,” came Jon’s amused reply.

Arya dropped the ladle and cursed as she glanced up to find him standing across from her. “Must you always sneak up on me like this?”

Jon’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he flashed a sharp smile and removed his outer cloak. “And miss your reaction?”

Arya rolled her eyes and resumed stirring while pretending  _not_ to watch the Wolf King remove pieces of his black armor. Just as she pretended not to remember the way his hands had felt beneath her tunic earlier that morning… or the night before…

_Stop it! You’re ridiculous._

“Did you and the tree have a pleasant day?” The thump of his growing collection of armor behind her set her nerves on fire far more than his teasing. She wanted to abandon the stew and help him remove the rest of it… then his clothes.

“Ha, ha.” Arya tightened her hold of the spoon. “You’re fucking hilarious.”

Jon fell silent and it took all the self-control she had not to turn around.

_Calm as still water…_

A hand slipped around her waist as Jon knelt behind her and buried his face against her neck. “You have a very dirty mouth, you know.”

Arya was proud she didn’t shiver or lean into his embrace. “I haven’t had much use for courtesies since the world went to shit, your grace.”

Jon’s beard scratched her skin as he smiled and wrapped his other arm about her waist, drawing her flush against his chest. “You still haven’t told me where you came from.”

Arya’s lips twitched as she replied, “You’re right, I haven’t.”

“Keep talking like that and I'll make you regret teasing me, later.” His growl vibrated against her skin and tugged at that place low in her belly.

Arya pulled the ladle free of the pot and blew on the stew to cool it before tasting it. “Doesn’t taste like ashes,” she muttered.

“Arya.” Jon’s low growl rumbled against her, this time punctuated by the light graze of his teeth on her skin.

“Fine.” She shivered and pulled free from his grasp as she stood. That he only released her because of her admission, she was well aware. Jon was ever touching her when he was home.

_Not home… **his** home… _

Anger coated her words as she reached for their bowls and began to fill them. “Winterfell, I—I came from Winterfell.”

Jon accepted his bowl but did not tuck in immediately as she had expected. Arya settled in beside him, then dared glance up through her eyelashes. An inscrutable expression had hardened his features, and she knew he was more her wolf god now than Jon.

_Careful. Keep close to the truth, but make it believable._

“Are you a Stark?” He spoke so low, his words were nearly a whisper, but for a faint rumbling timbre.

“No.” The hairs at the back of Arya’s neck lifted. Again, the press and weight of expectation. She could almost _feel_ Bran’s eyes on them. Arya ducked her head as she swallowed a too-hot bite and forcefully chewed.

Jon faced the flames, but she felt his focus on her all the same. “Arya.”

She shrugged and stirred her stew. “I said I came from Winterfell. I haven’t always lived there.”

 _Truth mixed with the lie. Makes it believable._ She was a shit liar, but Arya had lived among plenty of experts in King’s Landing.

“What house are you from?” Jon pressed, voice tight. He still had not lifted his spoon.

“Does it matter? Once the Long Night is over, I may not have a house left to go back to,” she muttered. It was true enough, especially if she didn’t find a way back before Catelyn or Ned sent a search party. They had few enough to spare with the Others about.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Jon growled. “Not until your debt is paid.”

Arya tossed her bowl unceremoniously to the side. “Are you fucking serious? Do you have any idea what it’s like out there, beyond your cozy little keep with your _safe_ magic walls!” She stumbled to her feet, as a pressure grew hot and heavy in her chest.

Jon rose in a single fluid movement, the oncoming storm brewing behind his silver eyes. “Have you already forgotten what I was doing the night my pack found you? Do you really think I’ve been sitting idle here, waiting for the Others to destroy everything I love?”

Arya surged into his space, eager to meet his fury. “All I know is that we do our best to prepare each day for the night. And every night we fight and pray the Others don’t scale our walls. Every time I range beyond the castle, I either run into corpses or wights, so don’t you fucking tell me you’ve been doing all you could to help! If there was ever a time for the old gods to lend a fucking hand…” Arya clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breath came in harsh, rasping sobs that she bit back until her lip bled.

Jon’s chest rose and fell with great heaves. His nearly solid inky gaze lingered over her mouth, and he shuddered before his face crumpled into something akin to regret. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand over his curling black hair. It was coming loose from its tie again.

Her fingers itched to tame it.

“Arya…” His broken voice drew her attention back to his stricken expression.

_Lost, he looks lost._

He shook his head and, before she could blink, closed the gap between them. Strong arms drew her up into a warm embrace. A tremulous sigh escaped her as she wiped her tears against his tunic and grabbed fistfuls of fabric and squeezed back.

“Forgive me," Jon whispered. "I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Arya shuddered at the echo of those same words, _forgive me_ , as he had pressed a kiss to the mark on her neck each night before bed.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself, although it did. All the ugly truths that had come spewing from her mouth, all she had been desperate to ignore the past two days while her family and Winterfell needed her. While she had spent two idle days tending a fire and talking to the ghost of her dead brother.

Jon rubbed slow circles over her back and the pressure that had built in her chest faded. “Forgive me,” he whispered again.

Arya nodded. It was enough.

 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

 

To Arya’s surprise, and a confusing muddle of annoyance and longing, Jon still hadn’t done much more than kiss her. She shouldn’t have been so eager to go further. She was his captive, no matter how he wanted to paint their arrangement. Still…

Still, it hadn’t stopped her from _wanting._ Wanting his lips to replace his hand at her breast, or betwixt her legs.

Still, Jon had used nearly every moment they were together to touch her. The press of his hand at her back, brushing her hair back or gathering her into his embrace while he pressed his lips to her neck and asked her questions. He was both demanding and surprisingly tender, her wolf god. This, Arya hadn’t expected.

Usually, Jon’s questions were about simple, silly things.

_“What did you favor playing as a child?”_

_“I played pranks on my siblings.”_

Arya hadn’t enjoyed last night’s questions about her other childhood pastimes.

_“Did you like to ride? Your horse… he seemed like a friend.”_

_“I don’t want to talk about Snow.”_

_“You named him Snow? But his coat was black…”_

_“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”_

Jon had left it alone, but something had simmered beneath his dark eyes and he'd been almost too gentle with her as he touched her later. Or so she had thought, before his hand slipped beneath her trousers and his fingers rubbed the slick apex of her thighs.

Tonight, Arya thought she shouldn’t let him touch her so often anymore. As much as his touch soothed her, it also made her burn in ways she was unprepared for. And she _shouldn’t_ burn for this man.

She couldn’t want him and escape.

She couldn’t want him and want to kill him.

The first bloody time she felt something for a man and he wasn’t even human.

“Do you like music?” He was saying. They lied facing one another in their bedroll.

Arya hadn't felt up to finishing their supper after Jon released her from their embrace. Instead, they had moved in tandem to cover the pot and covered the coals beneath it with ashes. The main fire pit roared behind Arya’s back, two of the wolves sleeping on the other side.

She wrinkled her nose at his silly question. “You’re seriously asking me about music, now?”

Jon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes and she saw he was trying. She could try for him, too, she decided. “I prefer dancing, but I’m not one of those silly girls who moon over a pretty voice if that’s what you’re asking. Please say you aren’t going to serenade me, milord.”

A dry laugh escaped his throat and Arya’s heart warmed at the raw sound. He did not laugh often enough, she had quickly seen. She was no jester, but damn it if she didn’t thrill at Jon’s laughter, at the happiness in his gaze. Humor was better than anger, after all. After their first fight, Arya had found she liked least of all being angry with Jon. She _needed_ him to be happy. She feared what that meant like she feared the way he looked at her with a heady blend of longing and near-reverence.

_I should be bowing and praying to you, wolf god._

“Jon,” she spoke his name, breaking the spell just before he closed the distance between them. At the question in his raised eyebrow, Arya gathered her courage. “You wanted to know what I was doing, so far from Winterfell?”

His smile fell as he replied, “Yes.”

“I was going to the Wall.” She waited.

Jon's open gaze shuttered, hiding behind the Wolf King’s mask. “The supplies you were carrying, they were from Winterfell, weren’t they?”

Arya nodded. “It isn’t the first time I’ve made the journey.”

"How could they allow you to take such a risk?" Jon hissed, something dark and dangerous brewing behind his calm veneer. 

"No one  _allowed_ me to do anything. Birth and sex don't matter now, remember?" Arya pressed fingers to his lips to still the words forming on his tongue. “It’s not safe, I know that. But nothing is, not anymore. Someone had to go to the Wall. I volunteered because we needed every able body to keep the castle walls. I'm small and quick, and besides... I had more reason than most to make the journey."

Jon clenched and unclenched his jaw, but he waited. Arya could have kissed him for letting her speak.

"I go," she whispered, "because I'm most familiar with the journey... because my father serves on the Wall."

Jon's brow creased as his lips parted beneath her fingers, warm breath kissing her skin. "And when I saved your life, I also stopped you." 

Arya bit her lip. What else could she say? She didn't dare hope for anything.

"If I could get a message to the Wall, for your father," Jon slowly began, sending her heart into her throat with his words, "would you promise to remain here?"

 _Safe._  

He didn't need to speak the word aloud, it was plain as the desperation coloring his voice, the fear behind his eyes. What had he lost in his past, to place such fear in him?

Arya removed her fingertips from his mouth and kissed him in reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was an extra long hiatus! So sorry for the delay, friends. I have been busy over the holiday season finishing my book and making New Year's resolutions ;) Near the top of my list is to reclaim the joy of writing. 2018 was such a stressful year for me, and The Red Hood was a welcome if brief reprieve. Now that my other writing projects are complete, I plan to focus on Red Hood. I'm not sure how many chapters we'll have before the end, as many as it takes to finish the story, at least. I'm so grateful to everyone who's left kudos and comments and come along on this journey with me. Your support has been a huge encouragement when I needed it most. Next chapter, we learn what Arya does with Jon's trust and the consequences of her choice. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon knows the truth about Arya now, at least the truth she wants him to see. He has promised to send word to Ned at the Wall, and it is this promise, and fear in the Wolf King's eyes that strip away her last defenses.

A week ago, Arya couldn’t have imagined a torture as sweet as this. Before Catelyn had given her the red hood and sent Arya on her journey to the Wall, life had been little more than winter and the Long Night.

Now she belonged to the Wolf King, until the day he removed her debt. Now he was trailing kisses down the length of her body, slowly removing her clothing until Arya was bare and trembling.

_Only because it’s damned cold,_ she told herself as she bit her lower lip.

“ _Don’t_ ,” the Wolf King snarled between her thighs. “Bite yourself again and this will be over too quickly.”

Arya’s breath stuttered in her chest as she sought a proper retort. But then his beard rasped against the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh and it was all she could do to clutch the furs at her back.

Warm breath ghosted over her sensitive flesh as he murmured something low, something strange; the old tongue he had used to part stone a frozen winter’s night. Shivers laced her spine at the reverence behind his words— _I should be worshiping you, wolf god—_ and her eyelids fluttered shut as his nose nudged her legs further apart before pressing between her curls. A gasping whine escaped her throat as his tongue dipped between her folds, tasting her desire.  

Arya grasped the back of his head, pulling the curls free as his tongue dragged up from her center and swirled over her swollen nub. “Oh _gods_ …” she groaned as her thighs began to tremble in earnest.

A rumbling growl was her wolf god’s answer as he slipped her thigh over his shoulder, dragging her closer to his mouth. He looked up with eyes so consumed by lust the black had consumed any traces of silver and reflected the firelight. His free hand reached past her hip bone, trailed hot against her stomach before his fingers reached a taut nipple.

A brush of his hand and Arya bucked up against his hold. “Too much,” she gasped.

Jon growled low at her protest and pinched her nipple the same moment his lips latched against her clit and he began to suck.

Arya raked her fingernails over his scalp as the pull at her abdomen began to flutter and rise like a storm beneath her flesh, building and pulsing in time with the Wolf King’s heartbeat.

“Jon!” she cried as her vision blurred, passing scarlet as her red cloak behind her closed lids. She shuddered and trembled with her release and he did not stop, even as she came down, unrelenting against her over-stimulated flesh. “Jon, please, it’s too much,” she hissed.

It was with a confusing blend of relief and disappointment when Arya’s wolf god caressed her with a final lick and released her. Her gaze followed the swipe of his tongue over his lips, consuming every trace of her desire. As he crawled over her, his cock nestled warm and heavy between her thighs. Her fingers came to rest over his lips and she wondered briefly, how one kiss could have led to this.

_He’s made you little more than his slave,_ a part of her protested, still wroth with her wolf king, the god who _should_ have been there, fighting alongside them from the beginning.

_It’s not like that,_ another traitorous voice shouted back. He hadn’t known. What did she know of a god’s concerns? She was no one. And still he had chosen to save _her_ . He was drawing his teeth gently over her fingertips with the taste of her still on his tongue because he wanted _her_. And he had promised to send word to Ned.

_How much should I tell him?_

He growled at her throat. “Stop thinking so much.”

“I can’t help it.” She bit back a moan as he licked the scar tissue, where a blade had nearly ended it not six months ago.

“Allow me to help,” he said before fitting his slightly sharp teeth over the skin and biting down.

Pain intertwined with pleasure, as his teeth sank further as his cock began to move against her slick folds, teasing her entrance but in no hurry to fill her. Arya’s lips parted in silent cry, and then she dragged her nails down Jon’s back, bracing herself against too many sensations.

_Pain, Ecstasy, Relief..._

Her shoulder throbbed as her wolf god removed his teeth and his tongue lapped at the shallow cuts, a stark reminder of his _otherness_. As much as he chose to appear as a man, she knew he was magic incarnate like the old tales said. Arya should have been afraid, should have protested. Instead she pressed her forehead into his neck and groaned, “Fuck me, Jon.”

A deep rumble tore through his chest, half growl, half groan as he lifted her hips and sheathed her in a single fluid movement.

_Home_ , came the errant thought as Arya pulled back to find Jon’s desperate gaze fixed upon her. His cock was thick to the point the stretch was almost too painful, even though his fingers had been preparing her before this night, she now realized. To her surprise, Arya accepted the stretch with only a little pain, nothing like his bite at her neck. She had taken far worse in fights than the faint tear and rip he had made. So much of Arya’s life had been suffering, it only seemed fair, only _right_ , to sacrifice this much to him. For this single perfect moment she felt full and _whole_ , as she had never before.

Tears pricked her eyes and Jon’s hunger shifted to growing horror as he caught a tear with his thumb. “Arya,” he began, brokenly. The man spilling through the wolf god’s skin. That same aching terror she had glimpsed before she had kissed him in an attempt to wipe his fears away.

She smiled now, cupping his face as she rocked her hips back, and then forward to meet him. Jon shuddered against her motions and grimaced. “Arya…”

“I swear to all the old gods right now, if you don’t shut up and _fuck me_ like I asked I will find a way to end you, Jon.”

A brief, breathless laugh escaped his throat, quickly followed by a groan as she squeezed her thighs, pulling him closer, and then flipping them so she could ride him.

“Arya,” he gasped, surprise and longing overtaking his fear.

Arya kissed him as she rocked her hips again, moaning as the head of his cock brushed _that_ special place within her. He had teased it with his fingers before, but _this_ was somehow better. “Yes,” she hissed as his hips finally rose to meet hers. “My god, right there.”

Jon’s hold about her waist tightened with her praise and then his hands shifted, and then there was no more room for words or thought. Only blood and sweat and the spicy scent of the weirwood leaves burning.

 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

 

_ They flew together down the mountain, powerful legs bounding through snow drifts and over roots and rock. At the moment, she did not envy birds. For while a bird had wings, she had sharp teeth and claws. Far better suited for ripping into the others who dared threaten their territory.  _

_ Their blood flowed bitter and black, the demons who had preyed on the living. They did not hunt the dead for food, of course, she and her snow-white brother with the red eyes. She craved the sweet taste of scarlet blood and raw meat, but their last kill had satiated them, for now.  _

_ Tonight, they would hunt side by side, as it always had been. As it was meant to be. _

Arya jolted awake from trouble dreams with the bitter taste of black blood in her mouth. She rolled over to retch beside the fire, but nothing came out. It had only been a nightmare, a dream of blood and monsters.

A warm hand ran over her spine and slipped about her bare waist. His lips pressed against her neck, soothing her shivers. “...so sorry,” he murmured. “It’s all right, Arya. You’re safe, now.”

“Jon?” She clutched his hand and twisted to catch his silver eyes reflecting the firelight. For a moment, a flash, his eyes were the same scarlet as the wolf brother in her dream. 

_ Am I going mad? _

His free hand came to trace her cheek as those silver eyes shifted to something deeper than concern and stronger than fear. 

_ How do I know what he’s feeling?  _

Arya shook her head and tried to push away the images. “It was only a dream,” she growled to herself.

“A dream?” Jon dipped his chin to follow her gaze. “Arya, what did you see?” He smelled like hope beneath sorrow.

_ Smelled? _

Her breath hitched in her chest, compounding the ache and longing Jon felt but she could not understand. “I—I don’t… It doesn’t matter.”

Jon pulled her into his lap, cradling her smaller frame with his warmth. He felt like the stones of Winterfell, the only strength left for her to rely upon. “Dreams have a way of making us remember,” he slowly began. “I first discovered what I was through dreams.”

Arya shuddered, but kept her nose pressed to his chest, afraid to meet his gaze. “Hard to imagine you weren’t always a pompous ass.” 

Jon’s silent laugh brushed against her cheek and he drew her nearer. “Oh, no. I was always an ass.”

This brought a smile to her lips. She wished she had the courage to push aside her lingering fears, to jab at him again. Instead she ran a hand over his bare chest, dragging her nails and imagined they were still claws. “Did you ever dream you were a wolf, you know, before?” 

His fingers clenched about her wrist as he released a ragged gasp. “Every night.”

_ Of course, a wolf god would dream wolf dreams… _

Arya shifted, torn between pulling away and leaning closer.

“Arya,” he swallowed, then said, “were you a wolf in your dream?”

_ He knows… of course he knows, stupid. He’s a  _ **_god_ ** . 

“It doesn’t matter,” she half-growled.

Jon’s touch burned her. “It matters to  _ me _ , Arya. I told you, dreams mean something to me.” His caress forced her gaze back to his, to the pleading and that thrice-damned hope building beneath a growing determination.

“This is so stupid. Why can’t you let this go?” she argued. She couldn’t say why she was so angry. Anger had always been her friend, long before Rob gifted her with Snow and taught her to rise above their family’s expectations. How she missed Rob, the brother she might not have lost, if only  _ he  _ had been there.

Arya pulled from Jon’s embrace with a snarl. “Where were you? Where were you when we went to war and lost our king?”

Jon blinked. “Arya, I don’t—”

“Why didn’t you come?” She scrambled to her feet, flexing her hands as though she really did bare claws. “You could have saved him! Now Rob is dead.”

Jon flinched as though she had struck him. 

_ Good. _

“We may all be as good as dead because  you and your kind didn’t come when you had the chance. How much longer do you think the North can hold out once the snow finally melts and the war with the South begins again? That's if we even survive an assault against the Others. Every year they draw closer to the castle, Jon, and every year we hope and pray to the gods for a fucking miracle...” 

One of the wolves lifted its head to watch her progress while the leaves stirred in the weirwood tree. The air still smelled of their scents, of sex and blood and the flames burning between them. She didn’t realize had been pacing, nor that Jon stood naked, a faint tremor the only indication her words affected him.  “I’m not all-powerful, Arya,” Jon pleaded. “And most men think me as bad as the Others because of what I am!”

Arya balled her fists and rounded on the Wolf King. “That doesn’t matter! No one else is coming to help us. If not you, then who? You could give the people something to believe in. Instead you sit here behind your fucking stone walls with your wolves and your dreams and let the world die.”

Jon’s arms were taught at his sides, his nostrils flaring as he battled for control. She hated that he could keep his anger so tightly wound. She wanted to unravel him, let loose the same beast she felt clawing beneath her own skin.

“You want to know what I was doing while your king fell?” He spoke between quick breaths. “I was bringing the battle to  _ them _ above the Wall. I gave up living as a man and yes, I didn’t fucking care if the world burned or not. The world stole everything I loved from me long ago, Arya, so don’t—” he closed his eyes and a tremor shook his flesh.

She couldn’t breathe until his eyes opened again and the anger brewing within them was gone.

“Arya…” he whispered her name, a plea for something she couldn’t understand. She hated being left in the dark, left behind.

_ “You’re not alone, sister,”  _ the Three-Eyed-Raven whispered with a rustle of the weirwood’s leaves. 

Arya rubbed her arms and realized they were both still naked. She half expected to feel fur instead of skin beneath her palms and realized she wasn’t angry anymore. “You’re right,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t really know you, do I? I have no right to judge you.”

“No.” His lips pressed to her forehead, his arms suddenly engulfing her, sheltering her again. “You have every right, the only right to judge me. I was selfish, Arya. Never again.”

His words spoke to something deeply hidden within her, a secret place in her heart she hadn’t been aware of until now. That secret place heard his vow and made her tighten her hold around his waist until nothing but Jon filled her senses.

“I swear it," he spoke and the magic settled over them like a dark caress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint, there is plot... ;) Seriously though, this was always coming, and I wanted to devote at least one chapter to this stolen moment before the storm brewing outside draws them out again. Thanks so much to all of you who have commented, subscribed and shared kudos! Your support has been the encouragement I needed. See ya at the next chapter, where there will more action. Be sure to comment if you'd like to see more naked wolf king ;) Happy reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf dreams plague Arya, but none of that matters with the Wolf King's promise. He will take her note to Ned and he will help them fight the Others. For the first time since the Long Night began, Arya doesn't feel alone.

Dreams of tooth and claw were interrupted by kisses and the sweet echoing tang of blood on her lip.

It was easy to forget herself, to become a girl with no name, with an old god worshiping her body.

Arya shuddered as her eyelids flickered open to find the Wolf King’s silver orbs searing into hers. His gaze was as much a physical thing as his hands at her thigh, hitching her leg up as he slowly slid his manhood inside her cavern.

_ Stay here with me forever,  _ she wanted to tell him. Instead she bit her lip to hold in her moan. 

Jon growled and stole her lower lip back, biting it almost painfully then tenderly sucking it into his mouth. Arya gasped as he released her.

“I want to hear you,” he demanded with a roll of his hips.

Arya keened as she raked his back with her nails, catching the scent of fresh blood. 

The Wolf King did not shrink back from her, only growled deeper as he increased his pace. “Please,” he whispered, the desperate supplication slicing through the final shreds of her control. Arya threw her head back and gave into his plea.

All her life she had been taught to  _ contain yourself!  _ and  _ lower your voice!  _ Then, later, she reigned back her true nature. Not because Catelyn Stark commanded it, but because Arya had to hold them together. To finally release that coiling tension in her gut, to find completion with this half-man, half-beast, was more than she would have dared dream.

Another day had passed. Jon had once promised to let her outside after the first two days. The thought to leave never crossed Arya’s mind after his most recent promise, not when they had spent the hours since exploring one another anew.

She squeezed her thighs now, linking her ankles around his perfect arse and meeting his thrust with her own. She crested so suddenly and strongly, she could barely breathe, only ride the waves of pleasure. 

Boneless, Arya gave herself to her god’s frantic rhythm as the Wolf King sought his own release, her name a prayer on his lips.

Wolves howled outside these wooden walls, competing with winter winds. Inside, the leaves rustled in the weirwood tree, tossing the spicy scent of magic in the air. Jon’s hoarse cry sliced through the air, drowning all other sounds as he spilled into her once more.

After, he pressed kisses against the raw skin at her neck as he had every time they joined together, apologies spoken with a rasping whisper, “Forgive me, love. Forgive me…”

Arya shivered and tightened her hold on him, drawn to comfort him for reasons she couldn’t explain. It seemed strange, to be the thing he sought solace in. Even more disturbing, how quickly she had given into this living, tangible connection between them. She  _ shouldn’t  _ be so close to him, so reckless, not after all she knew, all he had confessed already. And like every time, Jon lifted his head to meet her gaze, softer,  _ full  _ and barely any shadow hidden in his mercurial gaze.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, that eerie distance masking his expression. His hand trailed over her skin, pressing, memorizing every curve and brushing over the mark at her neck.

Arya often wondered where he went to when he pulled away like this. The mask was a pale reflection of the Wolf King she had first met. Cold, unapproachable and so lost…

“So is this your plan,  _ your grace  _ ?” She smirked as a single sooty brow lifted at her question. “Keep me in bed for the rest of winter?”

The distance cleared from his face, the traces of a smile belying the darkness drawing his brow together, the possessive pull of his hand kneading the flesh while drawing her closer. “If I thought I could keep you here, like this, I would.”

Arya snorted. “If you think you can keep me anywhere I don’t want to be, you don’t know me very well, your grace.”

Jon bit at her nose with a flash of too-sharp teeth. “Call me  _ your grace  _ one more time and you’ll see just how demanding I can be.”

_ He wants to possess you, stupid girl _ , a still small voice, too much like Catelyn, warned.

“Oh?” It was this thought, perhaps that made her smile grow wider in turn. “I’d have thought you’d need a moment to rest, Wolf King. As an old god, you must be  _ ancient  _ .”

Jon’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he stirred to life within her. “And I’ve waited a lifetime for you.”

Arya pushed him back, ignoring the trails of fire his touch left on her skin. “Oh, no you don’t.”

Jon stilled, grin still in place. “Don’t what?”

Arya shook her head and pulled away. “If we start that again, we’re never leaving this bed. And I don’t know about you, Wolf King, but I’m starving.”

Her cheek was enough to draw laughter from the old god, long enough for Arya to finally slip from his arms and search for her clothes. No sign of her dress. “Probably threw it in the fire,” she murmured under her breath and side-stepped around one of the other wolves to find Jon’s tunic.

“Here,” his voice drew her around to find the very naked Wolf King. It might not have been so bad if she couldn’t still see her marks over his sculpted chest or the way he clearly yet desired her. 

Arya swallowed back a curse as Jon helped her back into her dress. He ignored her attempts to shove him aside. “Jon. I’ve been dressing myself for most of my life. I think I can manage.” Her breath hitched as he helped tug the dress over her hips and he pulled her hair free.

“Let me take care of you, Arya,” he replied with a low rumble. Like the thunder building outside their walls.

_ Is there a thunder god too? _

Jon’s lips at her neck stole the question off the tip of her tongue.

Arya wrapped her arms over her chest, ignoring the tightness in her nipples. "If you wanted to care for me, you’d give me back my armor. I feel naked, walking around here like this.” The dress—gray today—was impractical as it was a reminder of a simpler time, the easy comfort she associated with summer. 

A nagging suspicion, one she’d willingly ignored in fact, pricked her ire. “Unless you didn’t mean it when you said you’d let me go outside again today.”

Jon’s laughter thrilled her, such a hard-won thing in the beginning. “I should have known you wouldn’t forget.”

Arya turned in his arms and rested her hands against his naked chest. “Of course, stupid. Now go put on some clothes. I can’t think clearly with you like this.”

“A good plan,” he replied, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Of course it is. Now hurry up, before I eat  _ you  _ .” Arya slapped his chest and Jon’s nostrils flared at her reprimand. Another rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and she almost considered leaving back into him, into his welcoming heat and desperate touch. Even now, he barely held his lust at bay behind his sharp smile. The shadow of his  _ other  _ nature rested beneath it all. Arya wanted to claim that otherness for her own. How easy it would be, to lose herself in him.

Arya pretended not to sneak glances at Jon while he dressed. She added fresh leaves to the fire, marveling as the flames burned brighter and hotter. “Could I have my cloak at least, if we’re going outside?”

Jon stiffened, his back turned to her. “Aye…” He twisted his head to glance at her over his shoulder and forced a smile. “Be back in a moment.”

Arya jerked upright as he headed for the forbidden door. “Wait,” she called and stole a steadying breath when his hand paused at the door handle.

“Can’t I go with you? That’s your room, isn’t it?” She cocked a hip and pushed forward a playfulness she didn’t truly feel, adding, “Surely there’s nothing in there I haven’t seen before, unless that’s where you keep your human sacrifices.”

She waited, casual smile held in place as he shifted on bare feet, dark silver gaze assessing and weighing her.

“Wait here,” he murmured, then entered the forbidden room in silence.

Arya dug her nails into her palms and bit her lip to hold back her temper. She turned a glare to the heart tree’s bleeding face.

_ What the hell is he hiding in there? _

The door swung back open and Arya relaxed her stance. This was forgotten the instant she recognized not only her boots, but the red hood draped over Jon’s arm.

Jon smiled as Arya eagerly snatched her boots and began to slip them on. The red cloak he kept close to his chest. His long fingers ran over the careful silver-thread embroidery, wolves interchanged with winter roses.

She reached for the cloak and Jon recoiled, drawing the cloak nearer before pausing. With a slight shake of his head, he drew the cloak around and over her shoulders.

_ "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"  _ a voice, a distant echo whispered at the back of her mind. 

It was a struggle to remember how to breathe as Jon’s hands slid down her arms to grip her hands.

“Come.” The sorrow was back in his silver eyes as he pulled her forward and back at once, towards the bolted entrance.

Arya drew her first breath only after he released his hold on her to lift the bolt and pry open the heavy door.

A gust of winter snows swirled before them, kissing her nose with a familiar sting. Arya gasped and darted forward.

“Arya, wait,” Jon called from behind as he shut the lodge door.

She didn’t wait. She ran down a set of stony steps and into the open yard below, adding prints among lighter wolf tracks. Jon’s nearly silent tread followed and the rest of his pack slipped from the shadows, curious, watching from between the smaller, outer buildings. The mountain rock enclosed nearly half of Jon’s keep, jagged obsidian walls ringing the wide enclosure. But the sky…

_ The sky! _

Arya tilted her head back to the sky and spread her arms wide, drinking it all in. She felt alive, as though she had been buried beneath a layer of smoke and magic. An unending sleep.

Jon’s hurried steps had slowed, but he froze entirely when she began to twirl.

Arya laughed as her feet stumbled in the drift, but she only moved faster, and her hands desperately craved for her daggers. She wanted to  _ dance _ as Syrio Forel had taught her.

_ Swift as a deer... _

Instead, Arya let her next stumble pull her to the earth. She knew her red cloak would be soaked from this  _ later _ . Now, she wanted to feel the snow at her back and her face and simply feel.

Jon had not moved from his position, silent and grave as the statues of the old winter kings of Winterfell, she mused.

“You going to stand there,  _ your grace _ , or are you going to join me?” She was smiling and didn’t pause to wonder why she hadn’t smiled like this in years.

He moved so quickly, like a shadow, kneeling beside her. “Don’t you want to see the rest of it? Smells like a storm is settling in.”

“It’s fine. And I know what a keep looks like, Jon.” Arya rolled her eyes, turning from the sky to face him fully. What she found stole her breath once more.

She had expected to find the cold mask of her old god. Instead, she saw  _ Jon. _  A wave of such longing filled her, Arya didn’t know whether to kiss him or run.

_ Run with the wind, down the mountain, tear into our enemies with tooth and claw,  _ a growing voice whispered at the back of her mind.

The wolves came closer, now that their master rested again. The yips of pups sang nearby and Jon quirked a brow at her, and his soft smile grew. “Want to meet the pups?”

Arya scrambled onto her feet and made quick work dusting the snow from her backside. Jon chuckled as he followed, and then his hands replaced hers, carefully removing any lingering dust. His touch, burning through her clothes, made the urgency to meet the pups increase. 

“Let’s go, before the storm breaks,” she interrupted, taking a safe step forward.

Jon’s fingers laced with hers as he pulled her to the larger of the outer buildings.

His smile never faded. Not as he passed tiny balls of fluff and teeth into her arms in the stables. Not later, as the winds chased them past the forge and into the armory, stacked with dragonglass weapons and steel that had belonged to the kingdoms of old. 

Arya marveled at the blades as she ran her fingertips over the cool surfaces She thought she could almost feel the heat of magic trapped in stone and steel. 

"Here, I believe this may suit." His voice came as a low rumble from over her shoulder. 

Arya reluctantly turned from the twin set of wolf-head daggers and froze at the thin blade cradled between Jon's scarred hands. "What is that?"

Silver orbs flickered quickly from hers to the steel between them and he lifted the sword higher. "A Bravosi blade."

Arya struck the toe of her boot to the stone floor. "Yes, I know  _ what  _ it is. Why... why are you giving it to me?"

Jon's chest shook against an unsteady breath and when he lifted his gaze his eyes were wet.

Arya absently covered her throat with a hand, anything to brace against the sudden tightness she felt.  _ What... _ she didn't understand what he was  _ doing _ , or why it mattered to her so much.

_ It’s just a damned sword, stupid. _

"I forged this for you. You—that first night, as we fought the Others—you fought as though you were dancing." He grimaced over his words and glared at the blade in his hands, struggling for words. He had struggled to speak when they first met, as though he'd been out of practice with the common tongue. "I hope I got the details right," he added, in a low murmur.

"You  _ forged _ ?" She shouldn't find the concept so ridiculous. Of course, he needed to know how. He lived alone, after all. Who else would fix his weapons, she thought as she looked at his collection. Only, she had grown so accustomed, to thinking of him as a god. And this was all  _ new _ , of that much she was certain.

Jon shook his head and began lowering his hands. "I shouldn't have—"

"Shut up."

Jon startled beneath her touch.  When had she moved? Arya stared a moment from her hand on his elbow and then reached an unsteady hand for the grip of the needle-thin steel. Arya lifted the blade and took three careful steps back.

Jon's hands clenched into fists as he lowered them back to his sides. Still, he watched, his face a mask once more as Arya turned, side-face as Syrio had taught her.

The grip was familiar, like a missing extension of her arm and Arya couldn't help her smile as she followed the first steps of the water dance. There was little room to practice in here. She wanted to go back to the outer yard.

_ Can he use a sword as well as he uses his claws? _

Her gaze flicked up to his as she rested the tip of her gift to his throat. "Care to dance?"

Jon's eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile. “Aye.”

The skies chose that moment to release an icy rain overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I promised more action in this chapter. I had EVERY intention of pushing the plot forward, but then this chapter happened. And honestly, I can somewhat control Jon, but Arya is another story. ;) Hope everyone enjoyed this last bit of fluff before things get real. The night is dark and whatnot, after all. Thanks so much to everyone who has read and supported this story with kudos and comments! Your words are golden and I treasure them, friends. Next, Arya will uncover more behind the mystery of Jon's magic and what's been happening in the wider world. Stay tuned and happy reading!


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